


Oak and Iron

by eldergnomes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldergnomes/pseuds/eldergnomes
Summary: "You know," Varric says to the Inquisitor with a subtle nod of his head, "I've been starting to think about putting all of this into a book."A barking laugh erupts from the Inquisitor, throwing her head back.  The hard liquor in her goblet sloshes dangerously close to the lip.  "If you can condense this entire shit-show into a book," she tells him, "You will truly be the Andraste's chosen everyone thought I was."The dwarf chuckles, clinking cups with her.  "I'm thinking," he starts, gesturing grandly with his hands, " 'This Shit is Weird: The Inquisitor Trevelyan Story.' Thoughts?"She shakes her head, fondly looking down at her friend.  "It's perfect," she tells him.





	1. Part I: Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! it’s been a minute since i’ve not only written any fanfiction, so before you dive below the fold, a quick intro! i’m eg, happy to have you here! this fic came about when i restarted da:i a few months ago during a particularly shitty rut i was in - both personally and with my own writing. i used to write fanfiction all the time in school, and decided to try it out again, to see if it would help me dig myself out from the hole i was in. somehow…it’s helped! i hope you enjoy this retelling of my rogue trevelyan, elodie’s, story within the inquisition.

All anyone knew of the youngest daughter of Bann Trevelyan was that she was the most defiant, unholy terror Ostwick had ever witnessed - including the horrors witnessed during the Fourth Blight.

“And she was here? What purpose would that brat serve at the Conclave?” Cassandra Pentaghast shakes her head, her long strides fueled with a steaming, unseen rage.

Leliana sighs, effortlessly keeping stride with the raging Seeker. The frayed edges of her purple cloak ripple behind her. “When I can make sense of it, I will let you know. Bann and the Lady Trevelyan are devout Andrastians; they are also well-versed in the Game. I imagine their daughter being involved in the peace talks was no random occurance.”

The pair march toward the end of a dimly lit corridor, an iron cellar door all between them and the sole survivor of the Conclave. Just as the Right Hand grips the door’s handle, the Left Hand grasps her arm, pulling her back slightly. “A word of caution,” Leliana warns in a hushed tone. “We need information about what happened. Be firm, but do try to remember that now is not the time for revenge.”

Cassandra huffs, but gives a curt nod. Leliana looks away, toward the door; her hand falls from the Seeker’s arm. Without hesitation, Cassandra rips the door open. The dank cellar air rushes to meet them, blowing back against them.

Surrounded by a pair of foot soldiers, kneeling at the center of their raised swords’ points, rests a girl. Shoulders forward and head lowered, defensive; yet eyes looking upward, unwavering. As if challenging the pair. A crown of cropped red hair frames her face, ends glistening with sweat. Dried ash and blood is smeared across her freckled skin, adding a harrowing depth to an otherwise flushed, youthful complexion. She is much younger than expected; so much younger. Yet she was there, in the Temple of Sacred Ashes - for there, on her left hand, shackled by wrist cuffs held by chains to the floor, is the mark. It pulses with a sickeningly green glow, casting sharp shadows on the girl. Yet her gaze remains steady.

Something brings a shadow of doubt across Cassandra’s steeled expression. But then the Trevelyan girl spits at her feet, and the inkling of doubt is gone.

Before Leliana can interfere, Cassandra storms up to the girl, dropping to one knee and grasping the soaked felt collar at around the nape of her neck. She pulls the girl’s head back sharply; the girl gasps from the jerking movement, but her gaze never falters. Something new is there, something the apostate missed: an abnormal green swirling within the telling Trevelyan amber irises, ebbing in and out of her dilated pupils. The unnatural phenomenon hardly phases the Seeker.

“Speak.”

The girl glares, her lips pressing tighter together. Cassandra yanks her head back further, tightening her grip; the girl groans, but remains silent.

“Perhaps,” Cassandra hisses between a clenched jaw, “I should be more clear. The Divine is dead. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” Cassandra brings her face closer. “Except you.”

Silence. Defiance. Cassandra is quickly losing her temper, and Leliana can sense it.

“You were found with twin blades in hidden pockets within your doublet,” Leliana sighs. “Why would a member of House Trevelyan need such weapons at a peace talks?”

The girl scoffs. Her voice is much harsher than her appearance would assume. “So you think I’m responsible?” she jeers softly.

Cassandra grasps the girl’s marked hand in an unrelenting hold and raises it. Every eye in the room watches as the girl’s palm flickers, sparks leaping from the arcane slit across her palm. One of the foot soldiers take a step back, sword slightly raised once more. “Explain this.”

Despite her resistant act, not even the Trevelyan girl can bravely confront what has hijacked her own hand. “I…can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Cassandra demands, exasperated.

“I…don’t know what it is,” she admits, the words breaking slightly. Her brow furrows at the betrayal in her voice; her next words articulate hard against her teeth. “Or how it got there.”

The girl cries out as Cassandra grips the back of her head tighter. The miniature metal plates coating the fingers of her glove pinches the girl’s neck. “You’re lying!”

“Enough!” Leliana takes hold of Cassandra’s arm once more and rips her away from the girl. Cassandra rises quickly, squaring her entire body toward the Left Hand. Her nostrils flare with hot, hard breaths. “Enough.”

“Defiant little shit -!”

"We need her, Cassandra.”

The Trevelyan girl groans, her eyes staring down at the hands in her lap. “Whatever you think I did,” she snarls, “I didn’t. I’m innocent.”

Leliana brings her attention back to the prisoner on the ground. “Do you remember what happened?” She inquires, voice steady yet cool. Detached. “How this began?”

The girl now refuses to look up. Her eyes only continue to stare down at her hands, her fingers slightly curled. As the mark flares up, her fingers curl completely into her palms, her nails digging into the skin. Cassandra takes a step toward her once more - and the girl raises her hands above her, shielding her.

“I remember…running.”

The room has become deafeningly silent. Everyone is still.

“These…things,” the girl says with a shudder, lowering her hands slightly, “They were chasing me. And then…a woman?”

“A woman?” Cassandra’s heated temper simmers almost instantly. She turns over her shoulder toward the girl, eyes wide.

“She…reached out to me.” The Ostwick noble’s daughter flexes her marked hand, examining it. "And then…”

Cassandra turns away from her, giving Leliana a hard look. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

“Cassandra -“

“I am fine.” Cassandra nods, her voice low but steady, some of the heat gone.

Leliana gives a curt nod then, with one final glance over the Trevelyan, she silently turns on her heel, leaving the survivor with the Seeker. Cassandra bends a knee in front of her, unlatching the manacles from her wrists. She takes rope from her belt and loops it around her hands, pulling tight. In a low, tight voice, the girl asks: “What did happen?”

Cassandra sighs. “It will,” she starts carefully, “be…easier, to show you.”

Hoisting her to her feet, the Seeker gives the girl a thorough once-over, really taking note of the survivor. Of the accused. It takes Cassandra hardly any effort to pick her up; despite the many lavish layers of fabric (now torn and burnt, of course) she adorns, there isn’t much to her. She stands only to the Seeker’s chin, but keeps her head held high, presenting herself as taking more space than she actually does. Cassandra blinks as she begins to walk out with the Trevelyan, noticing the faintest crescent scar beneath her left eye. Odd, as even nobles as far as in Ostwick take careful care to prevent any abnormalities to show on their stock. Cassandra scoffs at the thought, knowing all too well.

They are met with the dawning light of a new morning made harsh by the yawning rays hitting white snow as they exit the dimly lit cellar. Cassandra’s stride never wavers; but the Trevelyan stumbles, bringing her hands to her eyes, rapidly blinking away the discoloration from being in the dark so long. A bone-shuddering crackle rips through the air around them; startled, the girl jerks her attention toward the source. Swirling some distance from them, beyond the stone watchtowers and bridges before them, is something…terrible.

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra tells her. The noble retreats an involuntary step backward, eyes wide. ‘Breach’ hardly describes the domineering hole in the sky, rippling with waves of green lightning and storm clouds. Not dissimilar to the churning green around her pupils, the Seeker notices. "It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave.”

The Trevelyan tears her eyes away to give the Seeker a skeptical look. “An explosion can do that?”

“This one did. Unless we act, this breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

As if in agreement, the Breach roars, its abyssal mouth widening ever so slightly. The noble’s marked hand flares, green light snapping at her. She cries out, stumbling backward from the sudden blinding pain. Cassandra lurches to her side, keeping her on her feet with a sure hand on her elbow. "Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads,” she says, “And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this... but there isn’t much time.”

“How?” Vulnerable. “What could it do?” There is a childlike vulnerability in her eyes now, causing her voice to quiver with uncertainty…confusion, even…

But not fear.

Cassandra cocks an eyebrow. “Close the Breach. Whether that’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however. And yours.”

The vulnerability dissipates in a single breath. “Mine, because it’s killing me, or because you still believe I did this?”

Cassandra narrows her eyes. "Not intentionally. Something clearly went wrong.”

“And if I’m not responsible? What then?”

“Someone is, and you are our only suspect. You wish to prove your innocence?” Cassandra jerks her head toward the massive hole in the sky. "This is the only way.”

The Trevelyan narrows her eyes back. “So I don’t really have a choice about this.”

“None of us has a choice.”

The last of the soldiers exit the cellar, blinking in the bright light. With a jerk of her head and tug of the rope, the survivor and Seeker march toward a nearby bridge, surrounded from a careful distance by the pair of foot soldiers. Rows of makeshift tents and canopies line their path; pieces of linen and cloth strewn across haphazardly upon manufactured clotheslines criss-cross throughout. It’s a quiet morning - beyond the Breach, of course. But as they make their way through, people begin to emerge; those who bare the scars of a battlefield to those who bare the callouses of a farm step out from their tents at the sounds of the soldiers marching past; children pop their heads from the flaps of tents, blearily looking to see who owns the new cacophony of metal on dirt. Quiet curiosity begins to turn into something much more toxic as the Trevelyan’s glowing hand casts its sickly hue onto them. A bad omen; a curse of doom upon them all.

The Trevelyan keeps her chin high, but cannot hide the slight dip it takes as the eyes upon her turn sour. If the foot soldiers weren’t there, surrounding her…if the Seeker wasn’t present, keeping them away…

“They have decided your guilt.” Cassandra keeps her voice low as the people around them begin to murmur to each other. Their voices create a low hum, mingling in an unnerving harmony with the growls of the Breach above. The Trevelyan looks toward the Seeker. "They need it,” she continues. "The people mourn our Most Holy. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

The girl stiffens her lip.

Guards stationed at the first gate bring its towering wooden jaws open as they approach. The murmurs of the people grow louder behind them; barely turning her head, the girl peers back to see that the people have begun to follow them. The foot soldiers keep them back, if half-heartedly. The girl’s eyes dilate; the glowing green within them all but swallows her iris’ normal amber hue. 

A hand presses to the space between her shoulder blades. Jolted, the girl turns back toward the gate as Cassandra guides her onward. Whether the hand is for solidarity or to make her move faster, it cannot be said.

“We lash out, like the sky.” Cassandra’s voice is held only between she and the survivor. "But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the breach is sealed.”

Behind them, the gates shut, barring the people and foot soldiers from following them further. Cassandra comes before the Trevelyan, blade in hand. “There will be a trial,” she sighs, slipping the blade between her wrists. “I can promise no more.”

Briskly, she cuts the rope. The girl quickly takes her hands away, rubbing at her wrists. They are raw, shining an angry, bright red. It will certainly blister; but Cassandra is once again moving, her hand returning to the girl’s back to guide her. The soldiers around them keep all but lingering eyes to themselves.

“Come,” she says, “It is not far.”

The Trevelyan shrugs off the Seeker’s hand. Cassandra eyes her with a chilling expression; the girl glares back with equal venom. 

“Where are you taking me?” she demands.

Cassandra huffs. "Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.” She marches forward. The girl looks back and is met only with dark glances from the soldiers. With little other choice, with nowhere to go but forward into a great unknown, she follows the Seeker.


	2. Part I: Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! another quick note - while i have a good amount of this written already, so i don't get overwhelmed i'm going to post this once a week! again, apologies for how much i sit on the opening part before haven, there's just so much goodness - and i do take some liberties, for elodie's story's sake! 
> 
> also, critiques are always welcome! enjoy! ~

The Trevelyan scans the bridge before her. The bridge had seen better days: loose rubble and debris litter the overpass, much of it having already been brushed to the edges as best as possible to make a better pathway. Soldiers not standing at the wooden gates cluster in small groups, whether from injury or idle boredom. Just ahead, a member of the Chantry is reciting the Chant of Light to a small group of soldiers. Cassandra is a dozen steps ahead of her; the girl moves forward, following behind with less deliberate footfalls.

Another Chantry sister stands to her left, hands outstretched as she recites a prayer. As the Trevelyan passes, she sees the wrapped corpses at her feet. A few more steps; to her right, more corpses, the blood seeping through the wrapped canvas still glistening. Fresh. She bows her head, looking only to the stone beneath her feet. But there is blood there, too; pools of it, smeared across the floor, splattered in other places. 

Frantic murmuring catches her attention, and she looks up. A soldier, rocking back and forth, her back to one of the stacked crates near the next gate. Whatever she is muttering is unrecognizable; but then her body goes still, and the awed, damning stare she gives the Trevelyan as she passes, her green glow illuminating the dark bags of exhaustion on the solider’s face, is even more unnerving. 

“Open the gate!” Cassandra calls ahead. “We are headed to the valley!”

The girl takes a few hurried steps to come beside Cassandra, avoiding the rest of the carnage before her with hooded eyes. Cassandra glances down at her.

“How….” The Trevelyan pauses, taking in the agonizing sight of more battered soldiers, more blood, more terror beyond the bridge’s gates, up the hill before them. A hill where the Breach sits atop, almost mocking her. “How did I survive this?”

Cassandra’s pace stutters briefly. "They said you… stepped out of a rift,” she replies simply. Her hand falls to the hilt of her sheathed blade, her thumb absently running over the pommel. “Then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple. I...suppose you’ll see soon enough.”

The girl’s face, still rubbed with ash and blood - is it her own? Or someone else’s? - visibly pales. Above, the Breach erupts once more, spraying a wave of lightning from its mouth. The mark flares; she cries out, grasping her wrist as green shoots through her veins, the green glow rippling beneath her skin. Another wave of light from her palm; she falls, clutching her hand to her chest. Hooking a hand under her arm, Cassandra helps the Trevelyan pick herself back up. 

“The pulses are coming faster now. The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face.”

“Demons?”

“Unfortunately.”

Up the hill, past the carnage of bodies and worn-down soldiers lies the next bridge, just ahead of them. Her hand still offering support, Cassandra and the survivor trek toward it. The girl turns her head from the bodies; there seem to be more and more left abandoned the further they get from the first bridge. How long have they been just laying there? Are there..demons lurking here, still? She shivers.

On the bridge before the pair, there are, fortunately, less bodies and spilled blood. But also less bodies in general - only a handful of soldiers move to and from, loading crates onto a wagon on the other side.

“Lady Seeker!” One calls out, garnering the attention of a few others, who pause what they’re doing to see what’s happening.

“It’s fine,” she calls back as they step onto the bridge. “We are going to the forward camp.”

“Us too,” the soldier says. “Not much else for us to do here. Better we take what men we have left and weapons to help the front line.”

Another step; the girl looks down as a soft tremor rumbles beneath her feet. Loose stone rattle around her boots.

“We can escort you -“

The thought is left without words. The Breach belches above them, much more violently than before. The Trevelyan’s eyes widen as something…enormous plummets toward them. Without a word, Cassandra knocks her back, their bodies skittering across the ground toward the entrance to the bridge they had just crossed as a meteor slams into the center of the bridge. Stone cracks; dust plums shoot up, coating them and their vision and their lungs. The pair try to clamber to their feet, but their footing is lost when the bridge’s center collapses.

The Trevelyan brings her arms to cover her face as she tumbles down into the clouds of ash. Her shoulder hits against the jagged edge of broken rock, hard; she cries out, but her body continues to fall. She rolls, hitting more skittering rock debris and something…soft - she keeps her eyes shut, refusing to think of what it was. Another roll, and she hits solid ground; cold, but solid. Her hand brushes the surface, moving the dust away. Cold - and transparent. Ice. 

Pressing one hand to the ground, lifting herself, and another to her shoulder, The Trevelyan opens her eyes. 

Dust instantly coats them; she lifts the back of her hand to her eyes, fruitlessly trying to rub the grain away to no avail. She can’t see Cassandra anywhere; she can’t see anything anywhere, save for a few massive chunks of the bridge and endless amounts of dust. 

Her mouth opens, Cassandra’s name on her lips - but dust again infiltrates there, too, coating her tongue with ash. She coughs, choking briefly. But then she sees the hazy shadow before her, slowly rising to its feet. The Trevelyan scrambles to her own, running forward. Cassandra turns to look at her; she is coated in stone dust as well, but unharmed. She squints, waving the clouds of ash from her face. “Are you -?” She starts.

Something suddenly slams the ground near them. The floating ash around them swells, then dispels in a hurried wave. The pair can see clearly now, and stare at each other, suddenly lost. But then something green catches the girl’s eye, striking panic into her expression. Cassandra notes it and whirls on her heel, facing what has arrived. From where the second meteor hit the frozen river grows a pool of green smoke and light. A Shade, shrouded in rippling layers of fog, its skin dark and wet emerges from it.

Cassandra pulls the girl behind her, drawing her blade. “Stay behind me!” She orders before taking off toward the creature. Her blade rises, then slashes across the Shade; it screams out, but does not back down as its massive claws strike down toward her. Cassandra leaps away, but just barely.

The Trevelyan watches, inching backward from the fight. A low rumble catches her ear behind her. Slowly, she turns - and there, another Shade inching toward her. She cannot see a face beneath the shroud, but it is unmistakably gliding her direction. She looks over her shoulder; even if she were to make a run for the snow-coated hill beyond the river, she wouldn’t make it far before this thing dug its claws into her. It’s almost a swipe away.

“Well, shit.”

The Trevelyan drops to the ground, balancing on the balls of her feet. Her fingers curl around the bootstraps above her heels - in a breath, she yanks the bootstraps up, unsheathing another hidden pair of daggers and rising back to her feet. The blades move in her hands as if part of her; as the Shade lurches toward her, she pivots, spinning around to flank the creature. She moves like lightning; one dagger slices the creature’s side, drawing something darker and lighter than blood to spurt from the open wound; another swipe from the creature and the girl leaps again, this time opening a new wound on the other side.

The creature twirls, trying to seek her out. But the girl is gone.

Until the pair of blades come around its head, pulling in opposite directions, and the creature’s head falls, skimming across the ice. Its body convulses, then collapses into dust.

Cassandra pulls her own blade from the dead creature before her as the head hits her heel. She turns, first looking the Trevelyan’s face. Defiant, as expected. Then her eyes fall to the daggers in her hands, dripping with whatever liquid oozed from the Shade.

The Seeker raises her blade toward her. “Drop your weapon.” She commands, taking a step forward. “Now.”

The girl grips the twin hilts tighter, knuckles going white. “So what,” she retorts, “So I can just be fodder to the demons out here?”

“I will handle it-“

“Handle it?” A sudden, embittered laugh escapes the noble. “That demon would have slaughtered me if I wasn't armed.”

Cassandra’s blade wavers slightly. “You don’t need to fight-“

“You said you needed this mark to close that thing.” The girl raises her hand, the glow flickering menacingly. “So you need me to close that thing. It’d be a lot easier to do that if I’m still intact and alive than in diced bits of meat scattered about, don’t you think?”

The Seeker holds her ground - but only for another moment. With a begrudged groan, she lowers her blade back into its holster. “I should remember you did not attempt to run,” she admits.

The noble nods, walking toward her. She sheathes the blades into her belt, which is barely keeping together the shreds of tunic and doublet still clinging to her body. She turns toward the fallen bridge behind her. With the dust dissipated, she can see the sheer destruction the meteor caused. She can also see the stark rivers of red streaming from beneath the rubble.

“We are on our own now,” Cassandra says solemnly. The noble nods. Together, they begin to trek up the next hill, away from the frozen river. 

They hike onward in silence. When the cackling of another stray demon fissure can be heard, they sneak around, trying to avoid it. Where demons lurk, they take a higher path, out of sight. They pass abandoned homes, torn apart by the Breach’s debris, by the demons…it’s hard to say exactly what. Only that they are destroyed - and that there are no living survivors.

“Where are all your soldiers?” The noble asks as they slip past another crew of demons. 

“At the forward camp,” she replies, hushed, “Or fighting. We are…all scattered at the moment.”

“Understandably.” Cassandra stares at her. There is sadness in the Trevelyan’s eyes; perhaps guilt? No; something deeper. Then the noble nods toward a demon crawling some distance in front of them. They crouch behind a bush, waiting for it to slink past. Quietly, the noble adds, “It’s not like you knew this was going to happen.”

The Seeker grunts in agreement. “No one could have predicted this.”

The demon pivots away from them. Silently, they sneak past it, rushing toward a steep climb of stairs nestled into the hillside, coated with a generous layer of snow and ash. Upon reaching the top, the faint clattering of metal rings in their ears. Someone cries out in the distance. 

“We are getting closer to the rift,” Cassandra says. They both press onward with renewed urgency.

“Is it the soldiers?” The noble asks.

“Sort of,” The Seeker responds, “You’ll see soon. But we must help them.”


	3. Part I: Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick thank you to everyone who has been reading so far! working on this fanfiction has been so much fun, and i'm so glad to be able to share it with you!

The Seeker and the Trevelyan noble rush to the outside of a towering stone wall. The cacophony of battle is deafening now; the squelching of sword against flesh and thumps of arrows finding give in something soft brings the noble’s face to blanch once again. Without hesitation, Cassandra leaps over an opening in the wall; without little choice, the girl leaps in after her.

It’s chaos.

There are soldiers, but their movements are not aligned. They are fighting to survive, to beat back the demons if just to give them one more moment to breathe, one more stroke of their sword. Many defeat a demon only to accidentally clash with another, startling each other just as another fresh demon descends upon them, taking advantage of the confusion. And lingering above them, as if mocking them: a glowing tear, flickering with the same energy as her mark. Cassandra takes off into the fray.

A bolt shrieks past the noble’s ear, nearly nicking her earlobe. It drives itself into the stone wall, quivering from the force of impact. Following the trajectory, the noble meets the eyes of a dwarf. With a…crossbow? 

“Watch it, kid!” He calls to her. The back of her neck shivers and the girl dodges a swift blow from a demon behind her. She grabs her daggers and flings them straight into the Shade’s shrouded hood. It shrieks before bursting, spitting hot black liquid onto her. But another demon is charging toward her; unarmed, the noble rips the Trevelyan family crest from her chest. Her thumb presses against the neck of the horse on the crest, revealing a handful of small throwing darts. She puts her hand back to throw them - when a ball of fire slams into the demon’s head, throwing it to the ground. 

The noble turns; an elf draped in a ragged tunic throws another throw of fire at the demon, his gaze as heated as the flames licking the top of his staff. As the demon disintegrates, that fiery gaze shifts to her. He marches toward her, hand outstretched. 

He doesn’t notice the demon surging behind him, claws outstretched. 

“Duck!” She yells. The elf stutters - but ducks. The noble rips her arm forward; the darts expel from the crest, singing as they dig into the skin of the demon. It roars, halted for only a moment. And then its flesh begins to fizzle and foam, pussing around the wounds. Then it pops.

The elf turns, briefly marveling at the demon guts strewn across the floor and onto the walls surrounding them. He’s back on his feet, coming toward her again. “Quickly,” he says. He grasps her wrist, still outstretched from the throw, and aims her marked palm toward the rift above them. 

Something…magnetic occurs. The girl stares at her hand as the mark widens just barely, mimicking a widening in the rift itself. A sudden shock of energy shoots from her, striking the rift. One moment, there’s a real, visible tether between her and this other world beyond the Veil. The next, and it’s gone; the only remnants of the rift ever being there is a sorrowful hum hanging in the air. And the debris from the demons strewn about.

The elf releases her; the Trevelyan brings her hand down, examining it. The mark has receded once more, save for the gentle throbbing of green light beneath her skin. She flexes her fingers. “What did you do?” She asks, her voice hardly above a whisper.

The elf chuckles lightly, resting his weight against his staff. “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

The girl looks up at him, and the elf notices the abnormality in her eyes for the first time. He tilts his head, as if pondering the explanation - and implications - this has.

Cassandra approaches them, wiping demon guts from her blade. “Just how many more hidden blades do you have on you?” Cassandra asks; but relief, however temporary, is evident in her voice.

The dwarf laughs, coming up to them from the other side. “Wait, wait - hidden blades? That you missed?” He shakes his head, a warm, wide smile stretched across his lips. “Kid, we’ve gotta exchange secrets sometime.”

The Seeker rolls her eyes as she sheathes her blade. The girl keeps her eyes on the elf. “I…don’t think I did anything,” she admits. “I think it was just this. The mark.” It fizzles in response.

The elf looks away, toward the Breach. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he says. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning,” Cassandra interjects, “it could also close the Breach itself.”

The elf glances to the Seeker. “Possibly,” he cautions. Then his gaze falls back to the girl. “It would seem,” he says slowly, “you hold the key to our salvation.”

The dwarf releases a heavy sigh. “Good to know!” he exclaims, “And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

He saunters up to the noble, extending a hand. In it, her two blades from the demon carcass nearby. “Varric Tethras,” he says as she accepts her blades back, "rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” At the last part, he shoots a wink over to Cassandra, who only groans with disdain. The noble reaches for his hand.

“No,” she says, marching between them. “We do not have time for this. We need to get to the forward camp. Uh…” Her pace slows. She turns to face the noble. Not sure what to call her, she quickly goes, “We need to meet up with Leliana. Let’s go.” She continues on. Varric gives a playful wink to the noble before following. He clicks his tongue.

“Seeker,” he coos with mocking disapproval, “Here you are, carting this poor young girl through a literal interpretation of hell, and you don’t even know her name?”

Cassandra halts. “What are you doing, Varric?”

The coy dwarf raises his hands up in surrender. “Well, we’re off to meet up with Nightingale!”

Cassandra huffs. “Absolutely not,” she states coolly. “Your help is appreciated, but -“

A darkness passes over Varric’s expression. "Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore.” He walks up to Cassandra until they are a breath apart. “Admit it: you need me.”

She scoffs. But then turns and keeps walking with any more protest. Pleased with himself, he gestures to the noble and the elf to follow. Sighing, the girl walks behind them. The elf comes next to her, matching her stride.

"My name is Solas,” he says to her, “If there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

The noble cocks a brow at him. Varric snickers ahead of them. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” he says back at them. The tips of the noble’s ears flare a hot red.

“Ah,” she says, clearing her throat. “Well…thank you, for that. I suppose.”

Solas hums his acknowledgment. “Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process,” he deadpans. “Cassandra,” he calls, louder. “You should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen.”

“How do you mean.”

Whether her comment was sarcasm or not, Solas continues anyway. "Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

Ahead, Cassandra sighs. “Understood,” she says solemnly. “We must get to the camp quickly.”

“Well,” Varric pipes up cheerily, “Bianca’s excited!”

The noble looks at the dwarf, perplexed. “Bianca?” She repeats.

The dwarf grins, giving a nod to the crossbow strapped across his back. "My one and only," he says. "We have been through a lot together."

"And...you named it Bianca?" Cassandra steps over the rubble of a fallen wall, finding solid footing beneath the snow and ice coating the ground. Beyond them, the massive expanse of a riverbed, filled with more rolling hills and frozen water, burning houses, and swarming demons. Their cries echo hollowly through the ridge.

"Of course." Varric says gravely, "And she'll be great company in the valley."

The elf, noble, and dwarf climb over the rubble, following closely behind the Seeker. They stumble down the narrow path, having to place careful, deliberate steps, one after another, to avoid slipping or causing unwanted attention to draw to them. Ahead of them, a cluster of demons; so far, they have not noticed the misfit traveling party.

"I would strongly advise," Cassandra tells them, nearly losing her footing on a particularly icy patch of ground, "That we try to avoid -"

Her words drop from thought as a bolt of green zings past her shoulder. The demons before them fully turn to face them before charging up the hill. Darting from behind, Varric slings Bianca over his shoulder, loading her as he does. In an instant, he's fired a bolt back at the antagonizing demon; it shrieks, the bolt blowing its shoulder out into jagged chunks of flesh and black liquid. "Glad you brought me now, Seeker?" he asks. Cassandra only groans loudly in response.

They scatter from the path in all directions. Cassandra, allowing her momentum to carry her down the hill, keeps her blade drawn close to her side. As she speeds past a demon, she drags the blade upward, effortlessly decpaitating it. She whirls, now on flatter ground, as the body collapses behind her. She lifts her shield just as another demon plows into her. Varric loads another bolt, taking aim for the demon nearest her as she flanks to continue her assault, easily taking out the demon, followed by another. Solas slams the butt of his staff into the ground; with a bone-shattering crackle, a flurry of fireballs erupt from the top of his staff. With a hand, he guides them toward a cluster of demons further away that have heard the commotion and come running.

The noble drops to the ground, allowing her weight to slide her down the hill. At the bottom, she somersaults, blades drawn and ready. Eyeing a demon nearby, she lashes out at the desolate skirts of the shade, hoping her blades will find some give. The labored drag across flesh brings her to give a satisfactory grin; her blades bite hard into whatever is beneath the cloth and draws a cry out from the demon. It turns - and as it does, the tip of Cassandra's blade protrude from its throat. She scatters out of the way as Cassandra draws back her sword, leaving the body to crumble to the ground.

"You-!" she tries to warn, but too late: the noble is blindsided as the ground she lept to bubbles with green light, as if molten, and a demon leaps out. She is thrown to the ground some feet away, slamming her shoulder to the ground. She hisses, involuntarily bringing a hand to the already-injured shoulder. When she draws her hand away, her palm is left stained with hot blood. She looks up; a demon unlike any she'd seen yet towers above her, it's gangly limbs dragging against the ground toward her. It's head, almost like a hooded skull with a broken jaw hung slack from its joint, is tilted, eyeing her. It shrieks; it leaps; it strikes -

The Trevelyan draws her blades upward to soften the blow, though she knows it's going to hurt. Its gnarly talons come swinging down - and bounce off of her skin. Blue sparks fly from where she should have lost an arm. 

"Move!" 

The noble turns to see the elf calling to her, his hand outstretched to her. She looks at the rest of her: she is shimmering in some kind of blue light. But she scrambles to her feet, diving out of the way as a concentrated funnel of flame barrels toward the demon. It strikes true; when the flames disperse, there's nothing left of the demon.

The noble breathes hard, staring at where the demon once was in awe. Her own blood drips down her fingertips, mingling with the black liquid stained to her blades. 

Cassandra releases a hard breath, sheathing her blade once more. "As I was saying," she says coolly, "I suggest we avoid any more confrontation with these creatures and get through this valley as quickly as we can."


	4. Part I: Ashes to Ashes

"So," Varric comments, "I take it you're from the Free Marches?"

The group has escaped the rest of the valley relatively unscathed, save for a few scratches and burn marks. They trudge up another hill, leaving behind the desolate riverbed littered with the corpses of demons. Pine trees, leaning heavily from the weight of snow and ice, arch around them. The hollow echoes in the riverbed are replaced with the hushed, almost compressed silence within the small wood. Beneath their boots, the snow crunches, releasing icy breaths that seep between their clothes and armor.

The noble cocks a brow his direction as she wipes back a wet strand of hair. It comes away leaving her fingers cold and brittle. Varric raises his hands in front of him defensively. "Accent," he explains. "I'm from Kirkwall, but you're from...further east, maybe?"

She smirks. "That's quite the ear you have."

"I'm all kinds of impressive." Cassandra gives a derisive snort ahead of them. "So," he presses, "Ansburg? Ostwick? This is really going to bother me, kid."

The Trevelyan opens her mouth to retort when the mark on her hand flares again - this time, more urgently and brightly. She sucks in a sharp breath, grasping her wrist. She brings her marked hand to the space between her thighs, squeezing it as if to dull the pain, even slightly. Varric's lightness dims considerably. He comes to her side, hand coming up to touch her elbow - but then, at the last moment, he thinks better of it and draws it back. "Shit," he breathes, "are you alright?"

Cassandra and Solas turn toward them. Cassandra's lip turns slightly downward. "I know it's difficult," she says, "But we must keep moving."

"I quite agree," Solas chimes in. He comes besides the noble, guiding her onward with a light hand on the back of her arm. The noble sucks in a breath, but brings the hand to her chest and moves with him. "I have done all I can, but my magic cannot stop the mark from growing further."

Varric raises his hand once more and firmly places it on her elbow. The noble looks down at him, giving him a grim, but thankful, smile. He nods to her.

They climb onward. Uprooted tree roots, scattered rocks, and more ice patches slow them down, but only slightly as the noble's agonized breaths push them faster upward. Just beyond the crest of the hill is the unnerving sounds of demons. But it only sounds as if they're waiting, idle. Cassandra draws her blade, storming ahead.

As Solas, Varric, and the Trevelyan cusp the top of the hill, they're met with a disheveled Seeker surrounded by several demons, now silent and still. She rolls a shoulder, wiping her sword off in the snow. "I hope Leliana made it through all this," she comments gruffly.

Varric shrugs nonchalantly. "She's resourceful," is all he says.

A cry rips through the air around them, jarring them. "We will see for ourselves soon enough," Solas adds.

The noble swallows, hard. She slowly pulls her hand from her chest. Her hand quakes, and is still coated in her own blood - but the mark has subdued. Quietly, she clenches her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into the skin. She shakes the elf and dwarf from her, charging toward the sounds ahead. The rest of her party follow after.

She bursts from the trees; the sounds of fighting, which had been muted within the trees, is now sharp and harsh against their ears. The noble scans ahead; a dozen more foot soldiers, once again fighting off hoards of demons. There is a gate, but it is shut. And, of course, another rift torn within the air above them.

"We must seal it," Solas says. The Trevelyan looks up, steel in her eyes. She takes off toward the rift.

"Wait -!" Cassandra's call is cut short. Varric shakes his head. 

"We really need to learn her name," he comments. "Or give her a really good nickname."

The noble leaps over a fallen stone wall, leaving her companions far behind as she rapidly approaches the rift. A soldier notices her approach; his eyes widen, sword drawn. “Stop?" he cries, voice cracking, angling his body toward her.

Mistake. The noble's eyes shift over to the soldier's left, zoning in on the demon towering over him. Another shade, but this one is...bigger. Its sunken eyeholes shift toward her; it emits a low growl as its back curls, set to strike. She tears her blades from her belt. Her hand has begun to flicker again; the muscle in her jaw pulses as she clenches down. "Get down!" she calls to the soldier.

Without waiting, she leaps onto the solider, planting one foot in the crook of his shoulder, using his body to catapult herself higher above the demon. Her body curves over its arched form. From this close, she could reach out and graze her fingers over the harsh ridges ribbing its back. Her body twists; as she falls back behind the nightmarish creature, she bites her daggers into the back of the demon. Her twin blades drag down the body, snagging as it rips through muscle and tendon - or whatever these things are made of. The noble grimaces as it collapses in on itself - then as the pieces are sucked back into the rift. 

But another demon is upon her - followed by three more. The noble plants a foot firmly on the ground, shifting her eyes to scan her peripherals. The other soldiers are still fighting, but warily; the rest of her traveling party are still a ways away. They are overwhelmed; even when her companions finally reach them, these soldiers will be overrun. The noble, face grim, among them.

She brings her gaze to the mark. It pulses, and she winces; but something like understanding crosses her expression. 

The demons swarm her. They lurch, set to jump her -

The Trevelyan, the sole survivor of the Conclave, reaches her hand above her, aimed directly at the rift. Her eyelids narrow; her other hand grips her dagger fiercely. A bead of blood from a wound hidden beneath her hair trickles down her temple, curving over her cheekbones.

The mark begins to pulse faster. 

The demons are on top of her.

Just beyond the stone rubble, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric stop in their tracks, stumbling over their footing. In the center of the losing scrap, soldiers falling to their knees or losing their blades to tired arms, the noble disappears from their view, the surge of demons on top of her.

The trio are speechless. A light extinguishes from behind Cassandra’s eyes; Solas plants his staff on the ground, resting against it, contemplating. Varric takes a step forward, mouth agape. “Aw, kid,” he murmurs.

And then…

Green light?

Something green is glowing between the pile of grappling demons. Varric nudges Cassandra, who squints, head tilted, trying to figure it out. Solas stands straighter, watching with complete intent.

A beam erupts from the core of the cluster, vaporizing whatever pieces of demon are - were - in its way. The screeching from the demons is deafening; the soldiers still alive wince, covering their ears and scurrying away from the painful discord. As if melting from the top down, one by one the demons fall to ash, the remnants inhaled by the rift. 

“I don’t believe it,” Varric breathes, blinking. For before them, still standing with her hand stretched toward the rift, is the Trevelyan.

The last of the demons disappear, leaving her alone. Her Conclave attire, pitifully torn apart before, is now unrecognizable. Deep slits from demon claws leave bits and pieces tattered and flowing around her, revealing a thin underlayer of chainmail glinting beneath. The stitches of her doublet are hardly still pulled together, several buttons now missing. The former maroon and golden colors of the fabrics are beyond ruined, stained with dust, ash, sweat, blood, and demon bits. Yet she stands.

With a final outcry, the noble spreads her fingers as wide as they’ll go. The air around her trembles; the rift convulses, absorbing the beam coming from her palm. And then - it’s gone. In a blast, it seals. It throws her back, her head slamming against the snowy ground just outside of the closed gate.

She groans; then coughs, sputtering dust. She blinks; the churning of the Breach greets her from above. She coughs again after shooting a glare at the hole in the sky, then pulls herself up to her feet.

For a brief moment, there is complete silence as the dust settles where there was just hopeless battling.

“The gate!” Someone cries. The confused voice cuts through the silence. The noble winces, gingerly holding her head. The wooden gates before her begin to climb upward, revealing a crowd of stunned faces, both soldier and Chantry. As the gate rises, they come closer, a mix of awe and fear in their faces.

“Move.” A voice roars, breaking the people from their stunned stupor. “Move.” 

The noble watches as an imposing figure breaks through the crowd. She first notices the ruffle of golden curls rumpled across a very serious face, illuminated by the sickly light of the Breach. Brown eyes meet hers from the distance - are they striking because of their beauty, or because she’s concussed? - their hue growing more serious and more beautiful the closer he draws to her. A silver breastplate glistens from beneath a drape of scarlet material, tucked loosely into a well-worn scabbard. Framing his broad shoulders and formidable paldrons is a magnificent (if not nonsensical) fur collar that wraps around his shoulders; as she wavers and he catches her, the fur tickles her cheek.

“Lady Trevelyan, I presume,” he says. The noble’s eyelids flutter, her brow drawn together in a knot in the center of her forehead. 

“Shit,” she breathes, curling her fingers against her head.

The rest of her troupe arrives behind them.

“Commander Cullen,” Cassandra pants, coming to the noble’s side.

The Commander nods at the Seeker, holding the noble on her feet as she blinks blearily. “Lady Cassandra,” he greets firmly. “Good to see you have arrived safely - and taken that rift out as well. We’ve lost a lot of people.”

“I can imagine,” Cassandra replies solemnly. “And you can thank the…the…” Cassandra sighs, gesturing to the frayed girl in his arms.

The girl grunts, blinking rapidly before slowly pulling her hand from her head. “Well,” she says, voice rasped, “You’re going to lose a lot more if I don’t get to that Breach.”

“Indeed,” Cullen replies, a hint of something curious in his tone. His grip tightens slightly on her.

She looks down at where his hands support her - one wrapped around her waist, the other at her elbow - and gives him a deathly glare. Startled, he releases her. She wobbles slightly without his support, but waves away the hands reaching toward her. “I’m fine,” she growls before marching through the gateway.

The group stares after her as she totters forward. Cullen stares after her for a moment, before asking, “Is she?”

Cassandra groans before marching in after her, Solas quietly right behind. Varric and Cullen glance at each other before following suit.

With each step forward, the noble’s balance gains strength. She keeps her chin held up amongst the crowds of staring eyes. Chantry members’ prayers turn to whispers when she passes, their gaze following her with interest. Soldiers carting supplies to and fro slow, eyes trained on her. Even the injured hush in their agony, looking up if they can to witness the sole survivor - the prisoner? No one knows what to make of her after what she just did.

There are far more people here than at the first bridge; far more dead people, too. The stench of death is ripe, the stone floor drenched in blood. The only people who ignore her passing are the healers, who are frighteningly overwhelmed. The noble keeps her head forward…but her eyes cannot help but wander, watching them.

“We must prepare the soldiers!”

A cluster of soldiers ahead of her part to either side of the bridge, allowing her through. Chantry members slightly bow to her as she shoulders past them. On the other side of the crowd is a tent surrounded by stacks of crates and barrels. Tapestries of the Chantry hang from poles on either side; and in front of that, a table, where a disgruntled man adorned in nearly pristine Chantry garb stands, hands sprawled on its surface. Beside him, an equally ruffled Leliana.

“We will do no such thing.” The man barks at her.

“The prisoner must be taken to the Temple -“

“You have caused enough trouble -“

“I have caused trouble?”

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy -“

“You’re not in command here!”

“Enough!” The man looks up, meeting the eyes of the noble. Cassandra, Cullen, Solas, and Varric are close behind. “Ah,” he hisses, “Here they are now.”

Leliana turns toward the group. The tension between her brows lessens as she takes each of them in. “You made it,” she breathes, “Chancellor Roderick, this is -“

“I know who she is,” he interrupts. He narrows his eyes at the girl, snarling slightly. "As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry,” he proclaims, looking now at the Seeker, "I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.” The noble's fingers draw in toward her palm, clenching slightly. The muscle in her jaw twitches.

Cassandra scoffs. “Order me?” She exclaims, “You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

“And you,” he spits, “are a thug - but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.”

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor,” Leliana argues, “As you well know.”

"Justinia is dead! We must elect her replacement, and obey her orders on the matter.” Roderick glares at Cassandra and Cullen. “You,” he says, pointing to Cullen, "Call a retreat. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” Cullen interjects, but Roderick speaks over him. “You,” he spews at Cassandra, “Arrest the prisoner!” 

Just as Cassandra scorns, “The nerve!”, the noble steps forward. The Chancellor recoils slightly.

“I am Elodie Trevelyan,” she proclaims, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “Sixth and last daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, and you will not speak of me as if I am not here.”

“You,” the Chancellor winces, his resolve shaken only slightly by the mentioning of the name Trevelyan, “are not supposed to be here.”

“Something we can agree on,” Elodie bites back. Roderick shrinks in his Chantry robes ever so slightly. “My fate is my own,” she continues. "I won’t survive long enough for your trial. Whatever happens, happens now.”

“Leliana, Cullen,” Cassandra asserts, looking at each of them in turn. “Bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.”

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” the Chancellor warns weakly.

"We will meet you there," Cullen tells her, ignoring the Chancellor. Cassandra nods to him before looking to Elodie, Solas, and Varric.

"We will scout ahead," she instructs, something fierce tucked deep beneath her gaze. "And keep the path clear."


	5. Part I: Ashes to Ashes

Whatever the Temple of Sacred Ashes was before, however great and holy… hardly a shadow of it now remains. Where proud stone structures once stood are now marked by fragmented pieces of wall and rubble. Colossal, jagged spikes of earth erupt from the center of where the temple stood, frozen in time from the touch of…well, whatever the Breach is made from. Wherever the demons come from. Elodie clenches her glowing fist tighter. Wherever her mark comes from.

The four of them stand beyond the outer walls - what’s left of the outer walls. Dozens of small fires are still lit, burning away whatever it can find in the ash and snow. Several corpses, still aflame, petrified however they were trying to escape, reach out to where they stand. Elodie becomes visibly pale.

“That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you,” Cassandra tells her, coming beside her. "They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Elodie deliberately keeps her eyes from looking down at the corpses reaching toward her. Clouds of ash burst from their footfalls, encircling their ankles with a fine coating of gray dust. Varric takes a step foward, kicking something ahead of him. He wrinkles his nose as the the object scatters ahead, rolling then to a stop, revealing the grim smile of an upturned skull. A piece of the temple, leaning against another wall, groans as they pass, smoke blowing from somewhere inside the ruin.

"The Breach is a long way up," he comments, eyes cast upward past the toppling temple ceiling. The rest of the party turn away from the clusters of skulls and bones and debris to follow his gaze. It's massive; hardly any of the normal morning sky is visible from directly beneath its imposing gaze. It's almost as if the normal blue sky doesn't exist.

A familiar clobbering of armored feet march toward them. "You're here!" calls the Nightingale. The group turns to watch as she jogs past the soldiers, gently pushing past them. Cullen follows, not far behind. 

"Maker," he breathes, joining them at the entrance to the ruin. Their eyes flick over the destruction before returning back to their companions.

"Have your men take up positions around the temple," Cassandra tells Cullen.

He gives a curt nod. "Be careful," he tells the group, eyeing each one by one. As his eyes meet Elodie's, brown against amber, he seems to linger just a breath longer than everyone else. Varric gives a subtle cough, a mischievous glean in his eye. 

"Likewise, Curly," he quips, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Cullen starts; he clears his throat as he spins on his heel, off toward the gathering soldiers. 

"This is your chance to end this," Cassandra directs at Elodie. "Are you ready?"

Elodie glances back toward the foreboding entity above them. "I'm assuming," she asks, "You have a plan to get me up there?"

"No," Solas sighs, running a hand down his bald scalp. "This rift was the first." He gestures with his staff ahead of them. In the center of the crater beyond falling stone walls is another rift. It casts its sickening glow on the stones ahead, as if a beacon toward them, teasing them. "That rift is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach itself."

"'Perhaps' doesn't sound promising," she challenges. Solas grips his staff tighter.

"Then let's find a way down," Cassandra says. Leliana draws the bow strapped to her back and moves ahead of them, peering around the shadowed corners and torn hallways before the rest follow her. Elodie's hand spasms the further in and down the temple ruins they venture, green light flickering between her fingers. They descend; the beckoning light of the rift grows brighter, casting harsher shadows against the broken walls. Varric pulls Bianca into his arms, jumping at his own shadow.

Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.

Cassandra draws her blade as Solas casts a ward around the five of them. "What are we hearing?" Cassandra growls, her head on a swivel. 

"At a guess," Solas offers, "The person who created the Breach."

"They are here?" 

"My scouts were here earlier and found no one," Leliana insists, an arrow knocked.

"Physically, no," he agrees simply, "But remnants of them reflected from the Fade could be."

They approach the crater. Two archers are posed ahead, overlooking the cliff side of the expansive pit. Their arrows are aimed at the glittering rift below; harsh, jagged edges of Fade magic jut out from the tear in the air, pulsing with light. Leliana nods to the archers as they continue down the path below. Around another corner, an unnerving red glow mingles with that of the green from the rift. Another corner and the source stares at them.

"You know that stuff is red lyrium, Seeker," Varric warns, deliberately keeping several paces between him and it.

"I see it, Varric."

"But what's it doing here?"

"Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple," Solas offers, "Corrupted it -"

"It's evil," Varric puts bluntly. "Whatever you do -" Elodie leans toward the lyrium. The aura it gives is daunting...but also alluring. Cascading bolts of red light leap across the crystalline surface, like miniature lightning storms. The dwarf grabs Elodie's wrist and yanks her back away from it. "Don't touch it."

_Keep the sacrifice still._

_Someone - help me!_

Cassandra's body jolts. "That was Divine Justinia's voice!" The party urgently races to the bottom of the path. The temple ruins yawn around them, bringing them to the floor of the crater. No one is there to meet them.

_Someone, help me!_

Cassandra and Leliana look around, stepping ahead of the group, searching. Elodie sucks a breath between her teeth; the mark pulses with an angry cadence of green light, illuminating the veins beneath her skin almost entirely up her arm. 

_What's going on here?_

The Seeker stands deathly still. She turns around her shoulder, looking at the noble with wide eyes. "That was your voice," she gasps. "Most Holy...called out to you. But..."

A flash of white blinds them. They bring their hands to their faces, shielding their eyes. Each blinking, they look ahead to see the Divine. But she is ghastly, her form shimmering with some kind of magic, not all there. She floats above them, arms held out and in place by the tendrils of a sinister red energy. An imposing silhouette with burning eyes looms over her. And then - Elodie. But not really Elodie, an apparation of her, bursts into the scene. _ What's going on here? _ she asks, curiosity turning to sheer terror in a single breath.

_Run while you can! The Divine cries out to her. Warn them!_

The silhouette turns its entire form toward Elodie, glaring down at her. _ We have an intruder. _ The voice rumbles. Bits of stone around them fall, the ruins trembling. 

_Kill her._

_Now._

Another flash of white. As they recover, they all turn toward Elodie, who holds her marked hand against her chest, grimacing in pain. 

Cassandra storms up to her, hand outstretched. She grasps the fabric at Elodie's neck, pushing her back. Her back slams into a wall, Cassandra right up in her face. "You were there!" she exclaims, shaking her with each word. "Who attacked? The Divine, is she..." she shakes her head. "Was this vision true? What are we seeing?"

The terror the apparition had is nowhere to be found in the physical noble. There is, though, a blinding rage building in her eyes. Elodie grips Cassandra’s fingers around her collar and shoves her away. "I told you," she articulates firmly," I don't remember."

"Echoes of what happened here, as I had said" Solas says from a distance, "The Fade bleeds into this place." His eyes look up toward the rift, then the Breach.

"This rift is not sealed," he examines, "But it is closed...albeit, temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However," he notes with a sigh, "Opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That’ll mean more demons.” The Commander storms toward them, sword drawn and ready at his side. He glances over to Cassandra and Elodie, who are squared toward each other. He raises an eyebrow, but a look from the dwarf has him turning toward his men instead. “Stand ready!” He calls out. Soldiers draw their weapons, facing the rippling rift. Archers perched above, Leliana among them, knock an arrow each. Some arrow points drip with poison.

An uneasy stillness settles over the temple ruins.

Elodie shakes her hand, the magic crackling in her palm. Eyes trained still on Cassandra’s, she walks around her, toward the rift. 

Solas comes beside her, leaning in. “You must control your temperament around these rifts,” he advises briskly. “Spirits are drawn toward certain emotions, morphing into them - demons as well.”

She breathes out a hot breath. Eyes closing, her head tilts forward. Strands of red slip loose from behind her ears and fall around her face. At her side, the green pulsing of the mark becomes rapid, erratic. The rift trembles in response. Eyes snapping open, Elodie brings her hand above her, palm facing the rift. There's a connection; at the sight of the tether, the archers raise their arrows, taking aim at the quivering rift. Soldiers widen their stances behind the noble, an anxious energy bouncing between the front.

Crying out, Elodie yanks back on the binding of energy, pulling it toward her. With that, the rift tears open; as if she'd pulled out the seam from a corset, glowing green magic pours out, falling to the ground. Elodie shakes out her hand before grabbing the blades at her waist. The pile of green boils and bubbles; Solas raises a hand, a faint green light emitting from his fingertips; a type of dispell is all Elodie can guess as she watches. But the magic discharge doesn't react to his magic; if anything it grows larger. 

It begins to build upon itself, towering above them. Elodie takes a step back, clenching her daggers tighter. "Solas," she says absently, eyes trained on the rift.

"I cannot dispell it," he tells her. A sliver of panic creeps into his voice. "Whatever you have summoned, da'len -"

His words are cut off by a rupture in the gurgling magical mass, followed swiftly by a bone-rattling roar. Solas instantly casts a ward over all near him; Cassandra bashes her sword against her shield.

A flurry of lightning shoots out at them, piercing through the armor of a few soldiers. They fall to the ground; they lie still. Elodie's eyes widen; a massive demon, with skin like armor made of stone and claws larger than the length of Varric emerges from the magical goo. Flickerings of lightning shoot between the horns that spout from its forearms and up from its skull; a foul mouth filled to the brim with glistening fangs curls into a sinister grin.

"A pride demon," Varric scoffs, loading a bolt into Bianca, "Of course the kid noble had to summon a pride -" He turns to give his snarky remark to her personally - but Elodie is gone. Varric blinks, swiveling on his heel, scouting for her. 

Elodie watches, head tilted in confusion as Varric's expression morphs from perplexed to absolutely spooked. She reaches a hand toward him, wiggling her fingers in front of his eyes - and gasps. She isn't...solid; her fingers tremor before her, smoke and wisps overlapping one another to form her, but only slightly. Her normal pale complexion is ashen; even her blades' usually harsh edges now blurred. She looks down; the rest of her is similar.

The demon's booming cackle reverberates throughout the ruins, shaking loose stone and bone onto the ground around them. Its claw rises above it; as it comes down, a whip of light cracks in the air.

"Now!" Cassandra yells. Cullen and Solas follow after her charge, along with the rest of the foot soldiers. Varric spins once more before a stray lightning bolt nearly takes off his shoulder. Shaking his head, he submits to the battle, firing a few bolts toward the slits in the demon's face.

He couldn't see her. Elodie takes a step back. Around her, the feet of the soliders shuffle ash and bone dust around. But her footfalls make no marks. No one acknowledges her as they run past; the demon doesn't even react to her as she's left to stand alone, a sore thumb in the tussle. She brings the mark to where she can observe it; but it is quiet. Too quiet.

A slew of soldiers are thrown from their feet at a swipe of the demon's arm. Cullen dodges the attack, coming back to back with the Seeker.

"It's a lost cause," he yells to her over the commotion. "We need to retreat."

"This - may be our only chance!" Cassandra strikes down at the creature as it turns its back to her. 

"We cannot penetrate its armor!" Cullen looks up as a flurry of arrows hail down around them. They are quickly evaporated by lightning or bounce off the demon.

"There has to be a way," Cassandra argues. She moves away from him, toward a flanking position.

Elodie watches, stunned. The Commander is right; it is a lost cause. Men and women are falling left and right, whether from electric shock or a fatal blow of the demon's claws. And yet it still cackles...and her eyes wander to the rift. It, too, seems to cackle. Her gaze falls back to her mark. It is quiet.

Without another breath in hesitation, Elodie runs toward the rift. No one notices her as she leaps over bodies and dodges around swinging swords. She positions herself with the rift between her and the demon. "Please work," she whispers. She brings her hand in the air before her once more. But instead of a tether, the mark expands, as if to envelope her entire hand. The rift, before powerfully reverberating magic to the demon, stutters. It shakes in the air; and the demon's cackling chokes in its throat.

A weariness overtakes Elodie; she falls to one knee on the ground, but keeps her hand steady. The demon falls to one knee at the same time. 

Before her, she watches as her semi-formless fingers become solid again. The pride demon's eyes are drawn instantly to her, a low growl shaking the ground beneath them. The soldiers and her companions fall back slightly, hesitating at the sudden change in the battle.

"Now!" she cries out toward them. "Attack it now!"

A hail of arrows fall upon the creature - but this time, they are not deflected. Arrow points find give within the fleshy bits between the stone skeleton covering the demon. Cassandra and Cullen lead the foot soldiers in an assault upon it, swords cutting every visible piece of it. Flames dance between Solas' hands, growing brighter and larger just before he releases it. The blast of fire ruptures against the chest of the demon; the flames continue to lick the jagged surface as it crumples to the ground. Just as the rift sucks up the demon's remains, Elodie watches as the tether reappears.

The rift closes.

There is silence.

The last thing Elodie sees is the Commander, the Apostate, and the Seeker rushing toward her before she is enveloped in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh this is it for part one! i can't believe it's already done - although i love the pre-inquisition bits, i am definitely excited to get into the relationship building and story building in haven! thank you so much to everyone who has been reading along so far, it truly means so much to this little fanfic writer :)


	6. Part II: Inner Walls

Her vision is a blur of green.

Clouds of it, just churning in the endless void in front of her; her eyes dart back and forth, trying to sift through it. But it is thick, the heavy tendrils swirling around her, brushing against her skin. Flickerings of electricity ripple in the clouds, scattering light in the ominous green space. Something dark catches her peripherals. Elodie tries to turn her head to follow it, but nothing happens: she continues to look forward, petrified. Something soft sounds to her left; but when she tries to turn, she finds she still cannot move. Now it’s back to her right, louder, mocking; a low chuckling scraping against her eardrums. 

She is somewhere in the Fade; where, she cannot tell. But the expanse of it is starting to tighten around her, suffocating, constraining. Elodie gasps, her eyes widening as a cold finger trails down the nape of her neck. Her pulse quickens, the vein against her throat throbbing erratically; her breath hitches, getting caught in her chest.

_I wonder_, she hears, _Have you already forgotten what it means to be afraid?_

The green fog and the tightness in her chest begins to dissipate along with the laughter, fading into a soft mist. A dark red light consumes the places in her vision where green once was…until there is no longer green. Only a muted, static red.

And her eyelids flutter open.

Elodie first holds her breath, blinking away the vestige of deep sleep. Old wooden beams stretch above her, marked with cobwebs and untouched patches of dust. Hazy rays of warm light filter in through an open window tucked in the corner above, where the ceiling meets the bare wall of...wherever she is. She shudders, a wintry draft dusting her exposed hands. 

Her fingers grip the blankets beneath her. There is no movement; but as she awakens, a soft hum of voices beyond the walls finds her ears. Slowly, finger by finger, she releases her steel grip on the sheets.

The noble brings herself to sit. She looks to her wrists: no shackles. And the mark on her left hand…it’s merely a scar now. It hums, but with a passive magic and a faint green glow. But nothing more.

She gasps; her hands rise to cradle her head. As she does, her one arm doesn’t rise as far as the other; a tender hand to her injured shoulder reveals someone has bandaged her. She runs a finger over the rough bandage beneath the loose tunic someone had also dressed her in. Even where her head throbs, just beneath her hairline, she can feel the coarse etchings of stitches against her skin. Hesitantly, perhaps remembering the harrowing ordeal with the Breach, all the blood - she brings her hand away from her head. No blood soaks her fingers. Elodie releases a weighted breath; her shoulders sag.

A door opens on the other side of the room. Her shoulders hitch up, startled. But then a Chantry sister, of all people, wanders into the room, carrying a box. Their eyes meet; the girl, covered completely in crimson and cream fabrics save for her round face, slows her pace until she is completely stopped. They blink at one another.

“Y-you’re awake,” she gasps. She takes a step back.

Elodie reaches a hand out toward her, swinging her feet over the bed’s edge. “What-?”

The young sister drops the box she was carrying. The lid pops open; sprigs of elfroot flutter out, scattering around the floor at her feet. “I didn’t know!” She squeaks, taking another few steps back. “I-I swear!”

Elodie looks; she had put out her left hand without thinking. She recoils, bringing it to her chest. “Woah, woah, hey hey hey,” Elodie blurts out. Her bare feet tap the floor lightly, her movements much slower as she keeps her eyes with the girl's. “Slow down. Where am I? Is this another prison?”

The sister blinks. “I…” she shakes her head, uncertain. “No? I mean, I don’t think so.”

The noble nods gently. “All right,” she calmly says to her, “Then what is this place? Where am I?”

The Chantry sister collapses to the ground. Elodie bolts to her feet, the tunic falling just above her knees, moving to rush toward her when she notices that the girl hasn’t fainted; she’s fallen to her knees, bent over toward her, her slender hands clasped tightly above her bowed head. Praying to her. 

“I beg your forgiveness!” The sister cries out. Her shoulders are trembling. “And your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

Elodie only stares. Nose still pressed to the floor, the girl continues, “You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach…it stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

“Three days.” Elodie finds her way back to the bed, sitting down. Had she really been out three days? She shakes her head. “So…it’s over?” She asks. The sister raises her head, looking toward her. Elodie stares at her palms resting in her lap.

“The Breach is still in the sky,” she responds, her voice warbling slightly less than before. “But that is what they say.”

The girl’s eyes go wide. “Lady Cassandra,” she wheezes.

Elodie’s trance is broken at the name. “She’s here?” Elodie asks. “Where is she?”

“At once!” The Chantry sister scrambles to her feet, skittering toward the door. 

“Wait -!” The noble darts after her.

“She said,” she stammers, swinging the cabin door open. A gust of wind bursts through, bringing with it a cluster of snow flurries. Elodie steps back, wrapping her arms around her torso, shivering. “When the girl has awakened, she must know. At once, she said!”

Elodie’s lips part with more questions, but the sister slams the door behind her and is gone. She stands before it, the stray flurries already melting into the uneven wooden planks. Her bare foot steps forward in pursuit - and halts. Elodie looks down at the linen tunic draping her thin frame; she’d be mad to run outside the cabin in just this. She’d also, she frowns, probably lose a toe or two to frostbite.

Turning around, she looks again at the cabin interior surrounding her. It’s sparse in the way of furniture; beyond the bed she had been placed in, only a desk fills the space, resting off-center in a corner adjacent. An open notebook rests on top, next to a candle with a long-burnt out wick; the pages flutter with the draft. Resting on a stool next to the desk, however, is what looks to be a folded cloak. 

She grabs the cloak, running her thumbs over the fabric. It’s very thick, and very heavy; something made for harsh winter. Nothing that would be kept in her home in Ostwick. Elodie shrouds herself in its hardy embrace; warmth instantly tickles against her bare skin. She fumbles with the clasp; it’s different from her cloaks back in the Free Marches. Then again, she nods to herself, clasps are mostly for decoration on a garment, not to keep it together.

Her eyes fall to the notebook. She presses the pads of her fingers against the rogue pages, pinning them down. _Adan’s patient observations. A vain hope: Someone better at this than me takes over before the survivor expires. Notes in case follow._

Brow furrowed, she turns a page. 

_Day 1 is written at the top of the page in a hurried scrawl._

_Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated._

_Apostate says her scarring "mark" is thrumming with unknown magic._

_Wish we could station a templar in here, just in case._

She looks toward the next page.

_Day 2: Pulse normal, breathing normal._

_Still unresponsive; careful drop-feed of prep. elfroot extract to hasten her recovery._

_A lot of thrashing. Mutters about too many eyes. Something about "the grey." Encouraging?_

The grey? Elodie shakes her head, turning another page. A pen rests on this page, with the notes written at an angle on the page. Ink speared at the time of writing it, blurring some of the words.

_Day 3: Less thrashing. Some response to stimulus. Vitals seem solid._

_Two attempts so far by locals to break into the cabin to kill my patient._

_All this work to save her life, and will they just execute her?_

_Will inform Lady Cassandra I expect her to wake before the morn._

Elodie brings the lip of the cloak closer to her, tucking her chin into it. So: she is still accused.

Her eyelids close; a cleft between her brows deepen in thought. Her left hand twitches, the mark flickering between her fingers. The tightness in her chest returns; the Breach is stable, yet she’ll die. But the Breach isn’t closed so she won’t die…yet. Either way, it’s still out of her control. 

Her eyelids snap open. Turning slowly, she looks at the walls, searching. Her eyes fall on the window above the bed that she had noticed before; now she realizes it’s the only window in the entire cabin. And it is too far up for her to crawl through easily; her only way out, her only way to escape whatever twisted fate the Seeker and the Chantry had for her, was the door the Chantry sister left from.

She looks again to the window; the light coming through is too warm to be morning light, but too cold to be midday light. Dusk must be upon them; with a cover of dark, maybe -

Elodie’s toes wiggle. She groans. Even if she could slip away in the darkness of the night, she wouldn’t make it long. “Best to play the long game,” she murmurs to herself as she trudges toward the door. A pair of men’s boots rest, one on top another, next to the door frame. Despite their size, she slips them on. Her fingers reach around the door handle.

She pulls the door open.

Sunlight blinds her, but only momentarily. A hush falls around her; she braces for another burst of wind, pulling the cloak closer around her.

But no wind comes; Elodie blinks away the light. 

Before her, more than a modest crowd of people - soldiers, children, chantrymen - have gathered outside the cabin, as if waiting for her. There are dozens, if not double that, of people huddled in the snowy pathways between more cabins like her own. Her eyes dart from one to the next, reading for signs of hostility, of attack.

But there are none: if anything, they are stunned. Clusters pull together, whispering excitedly at one another. Children tug at their mother’s skirts, pointing toward her. Even the soldiers nod to her, bringing a fist to their chest in salute. One of them steps forward, gesturing for her to follow. She keeps her eyes downcast, but follows. The crowd parts, making a path for she and this soldier to walk through, but fills in behind her. The whispers grow in volume and fervor.

“That’s her!”

“The Herald of Andraste!”

Elodie glances around. But the disturbed, fearful expressions she had encountered before the Breach were forgotten on the joyous faces pressing around her now. Their eyes glisten with tears; with hope. She hugs closer to the soldier, avoiding eye contact. Pieces of conversation encircle her, but the people still keep their distance. Many peer now from open doorways and windows.

“-Andraste herself watched over her as she left the Fade -“

“Hush! We shouldn’t disturb her.”

“Why did Lady Cassandra have her in chains? I thought Seekers knew everything..”

“We were all frightened -“

A hand reaches out, gently touching Elodie’s shoulder. The girl recoils, startled. A Chantry sister smiles at her, nodding. “Maker be with you,” she says to her quietly. Her hand falls away. Elodie walks quicker, marching up stone stairs next to the soldier.

At the top, Elodie’s eyes fall upon a massive chantry. It is easily the sturdiest building in Haven; it’s colossal stone archway towers above her, a pair of fortified wooden doors barring her from whatever fate awaits her. A flicker of light catches the corner of her eye. She turns, only to face what looks like the sun - if the sun wasn’t surrounded by swirling clouds and glowing a sickly green hue. 

“That’s her!” Someone whispers behind her. “She stopped the Breach from getting any bigger!”

"I heard she was supposed to close it entirely. Still, it’s more than anyone else has done. Demons would have had us otherwise.”

“Still a lot of rifts all over. Little cracks in the sky.”

“She can seal those, though - the Herald of Andraste.”

“Someone better - the Chant of Light sure as shit won’t.”

People have completely filled every pathway now, many standing on barrels and climbing up walls to get a look at her. Smaller children scurry between the legs of the adults, racing for a good look at the noble. A pair of soldiers stand next to the chantry’s doors. They salute to her, nodding, before heaving the great doors open.

Elodie can’t get inside soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i've been reworking a lot of this fic over the past few weeks, but i'm feeling a bit more confident in its direction so i feel good kicking off part 2! :) please enjoy - and thank you for all the kudos and comments!


	7. Part II: Inner Walls

A gust of wind ruffles the cloak at her ankles as the great doors are pushed shut once more behind her. Before her, the emptiest Elodie has ever seen a chantry. The hall is void of furniture, save for a stray stool or bench. Tattered red banners of the Chantry flutter from rafters in the drafty air. Hundreds of candles burn on the ground around skewed red rugs, illuminating an otherwise dim path forward. With the sounds of the people outside muted, Elodie can hear a new conversation occurring behind a closed door at the end of the hollow vestibule. Abandoning the oversized boots, her bare feet pat softly against the stone flooring.

“…completely mad?” Elodie slows; that’s the Chancellor. “She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whoever becomes Divine!”

“I do not believe she is guilty.” The Seeker. 

Elodie approaches the closed door, cautiously leaning against it. 

“The prisoner failed, Seeker.” The disdain in the Chancellor’s voice is almost tangible, even from the other side of the door. “The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way!”

“I do not believe that.” Elodie raises her eyebrows at the Seeker’s response.

“That,” the Chancellor’s muffled voice replies, “Is not for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

“My duty,” Cassandra fires back, "is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours.”

With a deep breath, Elodie barges through the door. Two soldiers stationed on either side jump, hands reaching for their weapons; Cassandra, Leliana, and Chancellor Roderick turn away from a table to face her.

Roderick frowns. “Chain her,” he commands. “I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

“Disregard that,” Cassandra tells the soldiers. “Leave us.”

The soldiers salute to her. They turn toward Elodie; unsure of what to do, they salute her quickly as well, then depart the room, shutting the door behind them. Elodie stands before the three figureheads of the chantry, the massive cloak around her hiding all but her disheveled red hair and bare feet. Something twinkles in Leliana’s eye; Cassandra’s frown deepens significantly. 

“You,” Roderick spits toward the Seeker, “Walk a dangerous line.”

Cassandra’s head snaps toward him. If looks could kill, Roderick would be a dead man instantly. “The Breach is stable.” She sighs. “But it is still a threat. I will not ignore it.”

Elodie’s gaze darkens on the Seeker. “Let me guess,” she quips. “You need my help. Again.”

The Chancellor’s eyes narrow toward her. “You have done plenty,” he says.

“Again, something we can agree on.” Elodie keeps her eyes trained on Cassandra’s. “I read Adan’s notes. That thing almost killed me. Should have killed me.” An unasked question lingers in her words; something flashes across Cassandra’s expression.

“Yet,” Roderick prattles on, “You live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.”

“Have a care, Chancellor,” Cassandra bites back suddenly. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

“Someone,” Leliana adds, stepping forward, "was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live.”

Roderick blanches at her. “Are you insinuating,” he scoffs, “that I am a suspect?”

“You,” Leliana confirms, “And many others.”

He points a stout finger at Elodie’s chest. “But not the prisoner.”

“I heard the voices in the temple.” Cassandra walks toward Elodie, coming to stand beside her. “The Divine called to her. For help.”

The Chancellor cruelly laughs. “So her survival, that…thing on her hand - all a coincidence?”

“Providence.”

“You can’t be serious.” Elodie shakes her head, taking a step away from the Seeker. “One moment, you want me dead. The next, I’m your savior?"

Cassandra exhales harshly. "I was wrong,” she admits, walking away slowly. "Perhaps I still am. I will not, however, pretend you were not exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains,” Leliana tells the noble, “Your mark is our only hope of closing it.”

Roderick’s face flushes a beet red. “This is not for you to decide!”

“Oh?” Cassandra rejoins the group. She approaches the table centered between all of them and slams a hefty tome on its surface. Dust scatters from the tabletop, seeping from the mismatched pages. She glares at the Chancellor, pressing a pointed finger to the cover of the book. “You know what this is?”

At his silence, admission or defiance it cannot be said. Elodie looks down at the tome. The cover is embossed with the pattern of a swirling sun; a symbol of the Andrastian chantry. But then…an eye, staring up at her from the center of the sun. “A writ,” she continues. “From the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”


	8. Part II: Inner Walls

The proclaimed Herald, the Seeker, and the Nightingale are still; silence rests around them, a sudden reprieve from the rioting and ranting they just endured from the Chancellor after Cassandra’s proclaimation just before he promptly stormed out of the room. Yet the air still carries an uneasiness. The writ still rests on the table between them, it’s size underwhelming for how overwhelming its consequences now feel. 

“We will close the Breach,” Cassandra says, forcing certainty into each syllable. “We will find those responsible. We will restore order.”

“Rebuild the Inquisition of old,” Leliana murmurs, shaking her head slightly. “Find those ready to stand against the chaos…” Her head shakes harder at the thought. The look she gives Cassandra casts doubt. “We are not ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.”

“We have no choice,” Cassandra rebuttals. “We must act now.”

Elodie grips the fabric of the cloak tighter in her fists. The Inquisition of old…that was not an uncommon area of study in her tutoring growing up. Her tutors emphasized the importance of the history into each of her lessons for the sake of her predetermined destiny of joining the Templar order when she was deemed ready. But Elodie could easily read between the lines; she knew the consequences of following this path.

“You’re trying to start a holy war,” she warns.

“We are already at war,” Cassandra argues, snarling. “And you are already involved. Its mark is upon you.”

“I did my part.” Elodie’s ears flare a hot red as she releases her cloak, pointing a finger to her chest. The cloak flutters open, revealing her wrinkled tunic beneath. By the flickering candlelight, the raised bruises on her legs shine severe, painful; her wrists are still raw from the shackles that held her after the Conclave. “I stopped that…thing - and I should have died. I do not owe you anything more.”

“Perhaps not,” Leliana acknowledges. Her face is shrouded in shadow from her hood, her expression unreadable. Until she lifts her head, and the candlelight burns with something deeper in her gaze. “This world will take everything from you without ever asking, and will never give back in return. It is never a fair trade. Through fate or unfortunate coincidence, you were chosen; you are the only person who can seal the Breach for good. You are,” she presses, “the only person who can save us all.”

“I refuse.”

Cassandra laughs in disbelief. “And where will you go? Home?”

Elodie hesitates a moment too long. The Seeker continues, “Whether one believes you are chosen or guilty,” she admonishes, “Whether back in the Free Marches or the outskirts of Orlais, you will be a target outside of these walls.”

“But,” Leliana chips in, folding her hands behind her. “Should you revoke your refusal and lend us your mark once more, we can guarantee the freedom you seek.”

Elodie looks down, brows drawn together. Her gaze flickers to the remnants of shackles that marked her skin. It trails up to her palm, pulsing softly with green light. She tries to swallow, but cannot; the muscle in her jaw jumps as she clenches down. Trapped.

Her shoulders slump in resignation. “Once more,” she reluctantly agrees. Her eyes meet the Nightingale’s, lids heavy. “But no more than that.”

Leliana formally nods. “As you wish.” Her attention turns to Cassandra. “I will send word to Josephine at once.”

Elodie turns, pulling open the door behind her. Her fingers tremble around the handle. With her face turned away from the Hands of the Divine, beads of tears prick the corners of her eyes. 

The girl storms down the length of the vestibule once more, the cloak fanning behind her, a looming darkness following her every step. The chantry doors open ahead of her, a figure stepping into the doorway. The light of the setting sun masks their features; a halo of warm golden light outlines them. As the doors close behind them, Elodie can make out the gaudy fur cape draped on broad shoulders.

Cullen’s lips turn downward upon realizing who walks toward him - and in what state. He must know; he must have heard the commotion when she was escorted to the chantry, or saw the raving Chancellor as he stormed from the from its doors. He must know that the Inquisition has been reborn. Yet he doesn’t acknowledge any of this; instead, he steps in her path, barring her from exiting. 

Elodie refuses to look up at him. But her skin reddens. 

“What,” she challenges, eyes still cast toward her feet. His are planted just opposite hers; if she weren’t thoroughly embarrassed and defeated, the stark contrast of her small, bare feet and his hulking booted ones would be comical. “I’m already bound to Haven, are you going to restrict me to just this chantry as well?”

“What?” Cullen stammers, caught completely off guard. “No - I…you -“ He shakes his head, groaning to himself. “Maker’s breath. I hadn’t realized you’d woken up. Harritt - the blacksmith - he has new armor for you.”

Elodie now glances up. She hadn’t noticed that he held a stack of folded linens and leathers in his hands.

“I was in the area,” Cullen shrugs. “Told him I could make the delivery. Soldiers told me I’d find you in here. And…” Elodie squints against the sunlight behind him; is he blushing? “You should…er, probably change before heading back out there. The sun setting, middle of winter…gets pretty cold here at night.”

Gingerly, brings her hands to the pile of clothing in his. She looks up into his face; their eyes lock on each other. This man…why does he show such kindness?

“Cullen!”

The Seeker’s sudden interjection causes them both to jump out of their skin. Elodie quickly takes the clothes from his hands; without a word more, she barrels around him, leaving the Commander to whatever Cassandra needs him for.


End file.
